


Do The Fairies Keep Him Sober For A Day?

by Lynchy8



Series: Fun (and sad!) little drabbles [30]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: AU - Magical Realism, Angel fic, Angst, Christmas fic, M/M, One Shot, R needs hope, a little bit sad, and he's not a fat man in a red suit, but with hope, catholic references galore, father christmas is real, short fic, sweet darling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 19:08:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5427359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynchy8/pseuds/Lynchy8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"The way he remembered it, he had been cast, thrown, and otherwise rejected. To fall suggested an accident, a misplacement of the foot. Something that dear Lesgles would do. He had not lost his footing in the heavens, so much as had it pulled from underneath him."</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>For one night a year, Grantaire is charged with visiting all the children in the world, in the hope that one day he might be allowed to go home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do The Fairies Keep Him Sober For A Day?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> This is just a quick drabble that fell out of my brain this afternoon while I was at work. This is an AU that assumes (amongst other things) that Father Christmas is a thing that visits all children - just like certain children like myself were told (lied to) when we were very young. I mean absolutely no offence to any faith - I've just been indulging all my oh-so-useful knowledge of Catholic Dogma for the sake of a short story.

Time, ironically enough, was a mortal concept. It meant very nearly nothing to Grantaire.

The world turned, making its slow passage through the universe while the humans clung to its surface, creating their own ways of coping with the terrifying vastness that surrounded them. He was unaware of their routines, their calendars, their hours and days. All that existed was the emptiness and loneliness and despair of one that had Fallen.

And he thought that “fallen” was a ridiculous way of describing it. The way he remembered it, he had been cast, thrown, and otherwise rejected. To fall suggested an accident, a misplacement of the foot. Something that dear Lesgles would do. He had not lost his footing in the heavens, so much as had it pulled from underneath him.

And he felt the pain of it, always.

Then, quite suddenly, Grantaire hadn’t been alone. A great light had appeared, and of course he had fallen to his knees in its presence. As with all Seraphim, wings covered the angel's face and feet, but Grantaire would know that light anywhere.

“He has a task,” and Grantaire thought of the mortals and their sense of time and how it passed around them, because how long had it been since he had last heard that voice? 

“If you are equal to it, we consent to try you.”

“To go home?” Grantaire raised his eyes, daring to look upon the highest of the high, the Seraphim, who to Grantaire’s immense surprise, drew back the two wings that covered his face, looking upon the poor wretch before him.

Enjolras touched him, cupped Grantaire’s cheek, and that in itself had been an answer.

 _The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want_.

And so it was that time began to mean something. 

+

“Come on, R.”

Grantaire felt the bottle in his hand slowly being prised out of his hand. He groaned in token protest, but otherwise allowed it. Because there was only reason why Joly would disturb him. It took a moment for his eyes to focus on the tiny creature fluttering before him. 

Joly was a lot stronger than he looked. He was a deep blue colour, with long graceful wings of silk, and had been with Grantaire since the beginning. As with all of his kind, he bore no soul as such, and carried no bond. But for reasons known only to himself, he had stayed along with Lesgles, and Grantaire was beyond grateful to him. Right now he was gazing solemnly into Grantaire’s bleary eyes.

“It’s nearly time.”

 _When hell freezes over_ , the mortals said. A foolish phrase indeed, especially if words had still carried the power they once held, but then the mortals always had been so careless of their precious souls. Outside the walls of his exile, the wind howled and the snows raged. But he had a job to do.

One thousand six hundred times the earth had travelled round the sun since Enjolras had come to him. One thousand six hundred nights, Grantaire had fulfilled his bond. 

“Everything is ready,” Bossuet appeared, clutching a very long and extensive list, and Grantaire sighed because he was sure it got longer every year. 

One man’s kindness had given birth to a legend, a myth. And through the whims of heaven, it had been decided that the kindness should continue, should be passed on from generation to generation. Like he said, the Lord worked in mysterious ways, and it suited Him – and probably amused Him – to have Grantaire serve His purpose in such a way.

Generally speaking, Grantaire ignored the world around him as much as possible, enjoying the sweet nectar the fairies brought for him, which made it a lot easier to deal with the fact that his Creator no longer allowed him to waltz in the heavens.

But for one night, Grantaire’s mind cleared, the fog lifting. His wings, scabbed and charred as they were, stretched out tentatively. In places they were completely burnt through, but they would hold him, of that he was sure. And so, with a leap, he took off from his icy home in the north and went to move amongst the mortals once more.

He had a single night; chasing the dawn as the world turned, leaping from place to place and travelling in a flash, because of course he could. The Lord moved in mysterious ways, but angels – Fallen or otherwise – simply moved. Grantaire had once been a Virtue, a Spirit of Motion, hooking and unhooking the stars in the heavens, leading them in their merry dance. So who better to challenge the night?

The human race had been valued above all else; had been given free will and had dwelt in Eden. And they, like Grantaire, had been Cast Out. But theirs was not an exile of loneliness. And once a year, to each child, a gift was given.

Every sleeping innocent, their pure souls shining as they dreamt in bed; Grantaire visited them all. 

It burned him.

Under the spell of Christmas Eve, Old Nick became Saint Nick. Grantaire’s red eyes blended seamlessly with the holly berries, his glow mistaken for firelight. He shrank before their kind messages, grimaced at the temptation of sherry, laughing darkly at the irony of tempting temptation. For this he would be sober, and so he gestured to Joly, who had always had a soft spot for the sweet taste. 

Because it was a Task, because Enjolras had asked him to, Grantaire wouldn’t – couldn’t – fail. 

The Lord, Grantaire considered as he descended chimney after chimney, also had a mysterious sense of humour. He knew it was a joke at his expense, a pointed dig at his very existence. He bore it.

His cloven hoof prints in the snow would be mistaken for kindly reindeer. Any child still awake would pretend to be asleep, eyes tight shut not in fear, but in the hope that he wouldn’t leave before bestowing his gift in the stocking left so hopeful by the fireplace.

Hope.

Hope and faith. 

These children reeked of it. It clung to his scales and stung his eyes. Good children who washed behind their ears and ate their greens and had no concept of the perils in the world beyond their front doors.

And it was Grantaire’s bond to reward that faith, to renew that hope, where he kept none for himself. What right did he have to hope?

It was exhausting.

The night was long and the going was hard, but eventually, it was done. All the names were crossed from his list, and the long night was over. Grantaire returned to the north, tired and aching. 

As the chimes of Christmas morning began to sound, Grantaire took up his bottle, pouring out into a little glass, but he didn’t drink. There was one last ceremony to undertake.

“You’re late,” Grantaire murmured softly at the creaking of his door. “My bond is fulfilled.”

Light spilled across the room, filling every nook and cranny. It revealed the barren emptiness of Grantaire’s life, with nothing much changed since last year.

Enjolras always came. One thousand six hundred times, he had visited Grantaire in his exile, had come to see the bond fulfilled for himself. He could have sent someone else, some other angel, to check on him. For the first few years Grantaire had worried, had feared that another would come – a humble Throne, perhaps.

For that was what had led him here; a lack of submission, a rejection of the humility and servitude expected of all the choirs. Was it really so bad for an angel to want? 

The mortals seemed to do nothing else but want, and in an even more galling twist of fate, one of His last commandments had been to love.

Love and want were not for the angels, and so Grantaire’s wings were burnt and he sat in the cold and the dark, waiting for the sweetest of Seraphim to grace him with his presence.

“You’ve done well.”

Grantaire didn’t ask. He knew not to ask. Wretched creature that he was, he gazed up at Enjolras’s burning light, hungry for it. Enjolras, so severe and reserved, gave him a small smile before taking his hand. One day, the day of Reckoning, different bells would chime, and perhaps… perhaps…

“I’ll see you next year, R.”

What use did a fallen Virtue have for faith and hope? It was Christmas Day, and Enjolras held his hand and smiled, before bestowing a kiss on Grantaire’s brow. It was a benediction, a promise. 

Only once the light had completely faded did Grantaire take up his glass once more.

Another 365 days to go.

**Author's Note:**

> There are 9 choirs of angels. Seraphims are at the top of the food chain, and they have six wings. Then there are Cherumbims, Thrones, Dominions, Virtues, Powers, Archangels, Principalities, and finally your bog standard Angel. Thrones were guardians of Peace, Humility and Submission, things that R isn't really all that good at.
> 
> R was a Virtue, one of the Shining Ones that govern nature. They were in charge of miracles and gave courage, grace and valor. He made the terrible error of falling in love with Enjolras, a Seraphim, and of wanting him. Love is not for Angels. Wanting is also not for Angels. There was an almighty row (sorry not sorry for that pun) and so he was Cast Down, as happens to all errant Angels.
> 
> He might be let back in, one day, on the day of reckoning. And so he is granted this one grace, every year, to look upon the light of Enjolras on Christmas Day. 
> 
> Incidentally, the first Saint Nick died in the 4th Century AD - hence the one thousand six hundred, rather than two thousand - and the whole concept of Father Christmas came about from him secretly dropping bags of money down the chimney of a man with three daughters and no dowry to marry them off. The bags, according to legend, landed in stockings that had been hung by the fire to dry.
> 
> Also the title is taken from Slade's "Merry Christmas Everybody" which is one of those staple Christmas songs if you live in the UK. It's that line that kickstarted the whole train of thought.


End file.
